


This Isn't Belfast

by Monoscope



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Australia, Fluff and Angst, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Racism, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monoscope/pseuds/Monoscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're being burnt alive, your car's broken down, you're stranded and you doubt that there's anybody else on this road.</p>
<p>Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you wish someone had told you how unbelievably hot the Australian outback is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All the Way to Aleyaw

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you’re regretting a lot of the decisions you’ve made recently. You wish you’d brought more sunscreen and maybe a hat. Maybe even a larger water receptacle. A hire car with proper air conditioning wouldn’t have gone amiss. You know what, at this rate, you probably should’ve stayed in Belfast. The weather might’ve been shitty there, but at least you weren’t getting burnt alive.

Why did nobody ever tell you how unbelievably hot the Australian outback is? Like, really hot; really, really fucking hot. So fucking hot that your shorts are sticking to your thighs. Other things are sticking to your thighs. It’s fucking nasty.

The road you’re driving on has been nothing but red dirt for three hours, with the occasional rock or shrub on either side. The car you hired is making weird noises again; you hired it solely because it was cheap, and you’re starting to think it’s probably not even roadworthy.

Your best friend sits in the passenger seat. Gamzee’s been groaning at you for the last few hours. He smells bad, and sweat’s dripping from his curls and the end of his crooked nose. He’s taken off his t-shirt and his back is nothing but freckles and sunburn and the usual scars. You’re thinking you might go the same way soon, the way your clothing’s been clinging to you.

You’re doing this for him, though. For Gamzee. Because you’re a sentimental arsehole and road tripping across Australia had been a shared dream of yours since you were eight; because that batshit moron deserved all the happiness in the world. In spite of all his colossal fuck ups, you’d do anything for him. What a shithead.

“It’s motherfucking hot as tits,” he slurs.

When you were in high school, Gamzee had had this wondrous, lilting voice; no matter what bullshit he spouted, it would sound so sweet in his pretty little accent. This was the voice that Gamzee used to rally his little band of teenage anarchists when he was too young and dangerous for his own good; when he’d greet you with an innocent smile and a fistful of homemade explosives. But he was just as much of a danger to himself as he was to others and he fucked up his poor old noggin beyond repair.

Now he just sounded perpetually shitfaced.

“Karkat, I don’t like this shit none.”

“Neither do I, Gamzee, but the nearest town is 15 kilometres away. It’s not that far, so just calm your tits, okay.”

“Okay. Look, I’ll try, but I feel like my motherfucking lunch’ll more’n likely make a rapid escape out my speakbox, you feel?”

“What, like right now?”

“Yep.”

You slam the brakes on this shitty car and watch Gamzee as he staggers over to one of the scattered shrubs.

You and Gamzee had known each other since primary school. You were that kid who refused to dance during games of musical chairs and was the dead fish champion several years running. He was the kid with the toothy grin and the hiked up socks who’d share his lunch with you everyday.

No one really liked him, and at first you didn’t know why. He was vague and forgetful, that much was true, but he was well meaning.

You supposed it had something to do with that huge metal fence that separated Gamzee’s house and your school. There was barbed wire across the top, and it was closed to pedestrians. Kids whispered behind his back, and when his big, brutish father came to pick up his two sons, he never stayed to chat with other parents. You weren’t allowed to play at his house, he wasn’t allowed at yours. Then it occurred to you, when you were ten years old…the Makaras were Catholics. You decided then that you didn’t believe in God.

He moved away in year 8 and went to secondary school on his side of the fence. You lost contact with him; the next time you saw him, he was a fundamentally different person.

He’s staggering back to the car now, pale and sweaty. He looks fucking awful.

“Gamzee, you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

“I feel like I all up and got run over by a motherfucking 18 wheeler.”

“That’s probably not good.”

“You’re telling me, bro?”

When you try to start the car, to get your self the hell away from here, the engine won’t start, it just makes a jolting sound that mimics your twisting stomach.

You and Gamzee share knowing glances. You’re stranded and you doubt there’s anyone else on this road.

* * *

 Your name is Tavros Nitram and you drive pharmaceuticals from Alice Springs to Darwin and back. You stop at little outback towns like the one you grew up in, and don’t stop until your wares are gone. The pharmaceutical company pays for your petrol, and they’ve even given you a van with extra levers to replace the accelerator and brake pedals. It takes you two weeks to go up and back and you get a week’s break afterwards.

You consider yourself lucky.

You grew up in a place called Aleyaw, about 100 kilometres North of Alice Springs. You still live there now, though you don’t see as much of it as you’d like to. There’s a roadhouse, which consists of a caravan park, a pub and a general store and it attracts mostly tourists, though the locals still use it plenty. There’s also a school, a town hall and one doctor.

That doctor is white.

So are most of the teachers at the school, and the mayor and the people who run the roadhouse.

There’s about 200 white people in town. The rest of the 600 strong population is black.

But there was plenty of work. Aleyaw also had a scattering of farms and 5 cattle stations. That’s where most of your school friends have ended up, as well as your brother Rufio, who works at one of the stations. Your friend Aradia works as a waitress, Nepeta cleans the cabins at the caravan park, John’s a cashier at the general store. None of you will become doctors; none of you will run the town, or a business. Most of you won’t be teachers.

You gave up on your dream of becoming the next JK Rowling; she was white.

But you’re lucky, because you have a job. It pays well. You don’t have to work at the stations like your brother.

Oh how dreadfully lucky you are.

You’re driving the home stretch now. Soon you’ll be back in Aleyaw, you’ve got a game of Dungeons and Dragons planned with Aradia, John and Sollux. You barely even notice the guy running towards your van until he starts yelling at you.

“Hey, you,” he yells with a thick Irish accent, “with the van!”

You ignore him.

“Hey fuckface! My friend is literally dying here! Maybe you could help us out?!”

He looks scared.

This gets your attention. You’ve learnt enough from you’re your past mistakes to know that you never leave a person to die. Ever.

You bring your van slowly to a stop, let the man catch up to you.

“Who’s dying?”

“My friend’s been puking his guts out for two hours now. Now he’s saying his head’s killing him, and he can’t seem to understand a word I’m saying. Our car's broken, the AC stopped working and we’ve run out of water. Please, just-“

“Alright. Do you need to get anywhere?”

“We were heading to Aleyaw.”

You nod and put the car in reverse. There’s an old 4WD parked on the side of the road and somebody slumped against it; a mop of carrot coloured curls attached to a gangly, sunburnt body.

The one with short man syndrome that yelled at your car is leaning Carrot Top upon his shoulder. You tell Short Man that he can put his luggage in the back, and he does, after he sits Carrot Top beside you. It’s a little awkward. He’s very close to you and he doesn’t smell too fresh, he smells like sweat and vomit and Lynx deodorant. He looks half asleep.

Thank God it's only 10 kilometres.

Once Short Man squeezes himself in beside his friend, you take off. Most of the journey is driven in silence. You don’t ask for names, you don’t ask where they come from. You don’t feel like either of them want to make small talk. You’re almost at Aleyaw when Carrot Top taps you on the back and you’re worried he’s going to throw up all over you, but instead he smiles.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, his voice thick and slow.

“It’s okay,” you reply, and you think he’s done.

“Motherfucker’s like me deserve to be left on the road, my friend. You know what that makes you?”

“What does that make me?”

“A literal motherfucking miracle.”

And just like that, he wraps you up, like a book you can’t put down, and you decide you don’t want to see the last of your ramshackle passenger.


	2. Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward silence is shared between Karkat and Gamzee. Meanwhile, Rufioh and Tavros engage in blissful small talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. This is a short chapter, and it's not very good, I had big plans but they kind of failed I guess. I was also really impatient with getting this up, so I didn't have it beta'd. 
> 
> A few extra notes about the last chapter.
> 
> I know I spelt Rufioh wrong, I'm surprised nobody called me out on it. 
> 
> Also I ought to point out that I'm literally White Guy McCrackerFace and any points I make about racism aren't lived experiences. Thusly they could be inaccurate.

Your name is Gamzee Makara and you tend to get all motherfucking spiritual about the shit that gets thrown your way. You have a right to.

Every human is made up of chemicals that mix together in such a way that it makes this sentient, bimodal fucking thing made of meat. And each of these sentient meatbags is different from the next. Not only ‘cause of the way a motherfucker looks, but because each one’s all different personality wise. You reckon that shit’s something to get your excitement on about. Every person knows something the next doesn’t know. All their experiences ain’t the same. Nobody desires the same thing. Fuck, that’s some crazy shit right there.

And it’s all so fucking wondrous to you. This shit can’t be an accident, it’s all too perfect, all these sentient meatbags on this giant floating rock, each one living and breathing and wanting and feeling and all kinds of glorious shit. You reckon there’s got to be something helping shit along.

You stop short of calling that thing “God”. God was the old guy floating up in the clouds that your father had impressed on you since you were little. God was the reason you’d never met your mother. God was what got you kicked out of home when you were 16. God was a load of bullshit. That’s where your thinking’s at right now.

But there was definately  _something_ , something that wasn’t quite god. You were sure that was real.

It had been real today.

You ain’t got no motherfucking clue how long you would’ve lasted had a brother not turned up with that van of his. Maybe someone else would’ve turned up before you kicked the wicked shit. Or maybe you’d still be lying by the side of the road.

You just don’t know.

But it’s chill now. You’ve been to a doctor, she told you to be getting your rest on for a week, not travelling or nothing, then y’all should be good to go. She’s the only doctor in town, she’s all stern and professional like, it kinds of scares you a bit. But you’re sure she’s cool, once you get to know her.

Now you’re in a little cabin at the caravan park, lying in front of the air conditioning with a cold glass of water with little fucking ice cubes floating in it. Your best bro’s been unpacking shit from a motherfucker’s van, he’s done now and he’s sitting next to you. He’s silent, but it’s a comfy silence.

He’s also  frowning. He does that a lot. Don’t always mean he’s angry or nothing, that’s just the way his face is. His scrunched up little nose is all dotted with freckles the same colour as his mousy brown hair. ‘Cept it ain’t really mousy brown no more.

He’s been dyeing it; trying and failing to convince everyone it’s black. Problem is, that motherfucker’s so pale, it just makes him look like he’s got a terminal illness or some shit like that.

You don’t notice him opening his mouth, but he’s talking to you. Ain’t got a clue what he’s saying.

“-oh, and I found out Van Guy’s name. It’s Tavros. Still don’t see why I have to do all your stalking for you.”

“It ain’t stalking, it’s just being polite, you know. What if I run into him again this week, can’t be calling a mother “Van Guy”, can we?”

“Why are you so interested in him dude? You do realize that he probably doesn’t like you back?”

“It’s not like that bro, I don’t have the hots for him or nothing. It’s just like this; he all up and saved my life, why wouldn’t I be interested in him?”

“I guess that makes sense-“

“And to be fair, he did have some fucking beautiful biceps.”

“Keep your gay ass dick in your gay ass pants, Gamzee.”

You both share a chuckle at that, but then Karkat’s smile disappears. He’s looking at you all serious and making you wonder what the fuck you did wrong.

“Gamzee?” he starts, tentatively, “When you said you deserved to be left on the road, you didn’t mean that right?”

“Well, I ain’t planning on offing myself, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But if I died tomorrow, I don’t think nobody would give a shit, do you? Done too many fucked up things.”

“I’d give a shit, Gamzee. You may be a little shit, but you’re my little shit, you know? I know I might’ve said differently once, but that was a long time ago. I was angry and upset and disappointed and…and…wrong. There’s no excuse for what I said, okay?”

“Chill, I understand.”

“Please, just don’t say anything like that again.”

“I won’t.”

Another silence takes it hold, awkward and filled with words left unsaid.

You don’t like it.

You remember that day, how Karkat screamed at you and told you to leave, said he never wanted to see you again. And when he told you to go die, you did. Clinically dead for 5 minutes, you were.

You deserved all of those words, all of that anger. Didn’t matter what he said later.

But you say nothing. Don’t want a motherfucker to get all sad or nothing. You know he beats himself about it. Beats himself up about everything.

Karkat pats you on the back, all motherly like. He’s leaving, quietly, turning and smiling and walking straight out the door, leaving you all tuckered out on this not so comfy living room floor, with that not so comfy silence.

You wonder where the hell he’s going. Wow, a motherfucker sure knows how to get himself out of an awkward situation.

* * *

It’s a well-known fact that Rufioh makes the best tea in Australia, if not the world.

He starts by warming up the teapot and cups by filling them with hot water, then brewing the tea for no more than 3 minutes. The milk goes in before the tea does and he always puts a teaspoon of honey in it.

It’s so strange how particular he gets about it.  It’s his favourite thing, after sex and anime.

When Rufio makes tea, he’s in his element.

“What held you up, little bro?” he asks, standing at the kitchen bench, eyeing off the softly rumbling kettle.

“An Irishman with heatstroke…?”

“What?”

You watch as one of his thick eyebrows climbs its way up his forehead, the other one staying glued in its original position.

“Two tourists hitched a ride with me. One of them was pretty ill, actually. Also, he said I was a miracle? I still don’t understand what that was about.”

“Maybe he likes you, Tav.”

“Pfffffffffft.”

“Don’t scoff at me, young man! The inside scoop is that half of the town is in love with you. And apparently they’re not the only ones.”

He gives you the cheekiest grin and you have the biggest urge to punch him in the arm; really hard, so he winces.

“So? Was he cute?”

“Not really. Maybe if he had a shower…”

“Well, that’s too bad.” He chides.

You’d think your mother’s flowery pot would look out of place in his hands, but instead, as he stands there, he just reminds you of her. She made good tea, too.

He looks a lot like her. He has her heart shaped face and her little brown eyes that were the colour of honey. His hair is fluffy like hers, but he’s shaved the sides off, and put red streaks through it. He’s short like her, you reckon he’d be shorter than half of the girls (and almost all of the boys) that he’s ever slept with.

You guess he’s trying to look tough or something, by the way he dresses; with the tattoos and the hair and the spikes and studs and frays on his clothes. It never really achieved its purpose, instead having the opposite effect of sweeping everyone off their collective feet.

He certainly has a reputation. He’s the cute little Aboriginal punk, far from celibate, with the ability to woo girls by looking like he belongs in a boy band.

All you have is your mint condition X-Men comics and the fancy off-road tires on your wheelchair.

It doesn’t exactly make up for your social awkwardness, or your pudge (your friends say you’re “stocky,” you just say you’re fat). It certainly doesn’t make up for some of the things you’ve done. Thanks to an incident involving you and Vriska Serket, you’re pretty well in disgrace. Not him, though.

People like Rufioh and Aradia, they act like you’re flimsy as tissue paper. They try to compliment you, but they smother you, they fear that you’ll break apart if they’re not careful, and become the person you were 2 years ago.

He ruffles your hair. He sits beside you, puts the steaming cups of tea down, and tries to protect your tissue paper sanity.

It’s time they all moved on.

It’s hard. It’s been 2 years since the last time you saw Vriska Serket cry, and had deal with all its repercussions. Everything’s still there; the old house and the cliff it stood on, the pub counter, where Vriska sat as told everyone _everything_ , and where you’d also sit and try to woo the pretty barmaid with the bottle top glasses. You never stood a chance with her.

“I’m proud of you, Tav,” says Rufioh says suddenly, and you know what he’s trying to do ,“you’ve come so far since-“

“I thought you promised not to talk about it.”

“I thought you might’ve been ready to confront it all, but that’s fine. You’re worth more than you think.” You know what you’re worth. “Still going to the Captors tonight?”

“Yeah, Sollux and Aradia are going to play DnD.”

You let Rufioh change the subject. Thank God for small talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really, really short and really, really bad.
> 
> EDIT: that note I originally made about Parmagiana was actually meant for the next chapter and I am a dumbass.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Monoscope

**Author's Note:**

> So, this the first fic I've ever published, so please be nice, I guess? Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> A few things, Aleyaw isn't actually a real place. It's inspired partly by the town of Ti Tree in the Northern Territory, which I have never actually visited or lived in (google is everybody's friend), so if you happen to live in Ti Tree, please know I have literally no idea what it's actually like. The name Aleyaw comes from the original Anmatjerre name for Ti Tree.
> 
> Just like I can't claim to know much about the Australian outback, I also can't claim to know much about Northern Ireland, so If you happen to live in Belfast and I've gotten something wrong, please let me know.
> 
> I intend to write more stuff but I am also a hella slow writer, so you're going to have to bear with me.
> 
> Thanks to tumblr user derse-punk for editing this fic and making it less shit.
> 
> Cheers,  
> Monoscope.


End file.
